Baby birds and lots of guilt

How could I have done that?
How could I not have known?
How could I have drowned a helpless baby wren?

It was an accident, that's for sure. But I still feel just awfu about it. I even hate to talk about it. But I will, if nothing more than to honor his or her short life. I want to cry.

I was watering the newbie plants and flowers in the front yard at GardenSpirit this morning. I'd been there since shade filled the yard til the blazing midday sun was making it Big Self known -- drying out the soil instantly.

Almost done, just a few more creeping shrubs and–the hanging baskets! I took the hose and slathered water into both of them, one at a time, until the water ran dripping out the bottoms.

I knew a wren had built a nest in one of the baskets, but there was not a peep from inside...and it had been a long time since the nest was built. I assumed the babies were gone or that momma had abandoned the nest for a better location.

Finally finished and I went down the steps to turn off the spigot. I heard a soggy thud and looked over to see a tiny baby wren gasping for air on the ground. It was soaking wet, its little beak opening and closing trying to find some air.

I was horrified. This tiny baby, fallen from a height that might have killed it anyway, was struggling for air because of me. Me. Me and my big hose, my big plans. And there was nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing.

Picking up the baby would have guaranteed its death - the mother bird won't feed babies tainted with human scent. So I left it there...likely to die. The momma bird was back before I left, "Go down to the ground," I wanted to scream. "See if you can save your baby."

It was a bad place for a nest, let's face it. Even a heavy rain might have drowned the babies. But rain has been scarce in these parts for a long long time. They might have made it -- this one at least had survived. Until now.

I would have gladly sacrificed the hanging basket for these babies. I just didn't know. I didn't know.

Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better. I'm gonna quit now. I wish I could take it all back. Baby bird guilt is one of the worst.

The blueberry wars

I like birds, really I do.
There are more than 25 bird feeders and birdhouse on the GardenSpirit Garden Retreat property.
But when they start harvesting my blueberries, I tend to get a bit, well, defensive.

All year, I tuck fertilizer around the roots of the bushes that line the fence at the front of my property - the sunniest place in the entire 7 acres. In the spring, tiny pink-white blooms peek out at the edges of the bare branches filling my heart with gladness: the hard tiny green berries aren't far behind.

As the days get warmer and the berries swell, I carefully erect my blueberry nets over the bushes. I'm kinda proud of the design; created it myself.

It looks a bit kooky, but I twisted together white PVC pipe to make a 4 x 4 foot frame around the bushes - it's 20 feet long altogether - and then drape bird netting from the ground, over the top and all the way to the ground on the other side. Protection from hungry birds with little beaks and big ideas about eating my blueberries!

Finally, some of those marvelous berries begin to change color from the sour green to a lighter pink-rose and finally a deep dusky blue. And it's precisely at this moment that those crafty birds, with their little bird brains, figure out that there are some gaps in my netting, some weaknesses in my defense of the blueberry bushes.

Unfortunately for me, the birds discover the gaps long before I discover the damage they have done to the current crop - drat! Foiled again!

Two years ago, I had blueberries by the bucket. This year, I'll be lucky to harvest a quart or so.

It's so frustrating - I only get one chance at blueberries each year. And - surprisingly, I really don't like to EAT them (never developed the taste) and I really don't like to PICK them (they take forever --the clusters ripen at different times forcing me to go over the same bushes again and again). But I do love to grow them, feed them to people I love, knowing that my organic fruit is healthful and appreciated.

But not this year. Grrrrr. Not this year. Maybe those little bird brains aren't so little after all. And for Pete's sake, birds need to eat too. Right?

Oh heck, next year, I'll try to think like a cardinal or a wren. I'll nail down those nets. Find the gaps. Early. Keep some berries for myself and my family.

Or maybe I'll "forget" and let the birds enjoy the feast. Either way, those blueberries are sure tasty!

Memorial Day retreat for women

"Coming into full bloom - renewing that wild, wonderful woman inside"
May 26 - 28, 2007 (Saturday - Monday) Memorial Day weekend
GardenSpirit Guesthouse
Durham, North Carolina

Let yourself BLOOM into the amazing and magnificent woman you always thought you'd be. Live up to your own expectations - even better, change your expectations to live up to YOU! Join a group of women who are on the path to loving themselves more fully and appreciate each other, too. $450 per person includes shared accommodations at GardenSpirit Guesthouse, all meals, fresh flowers, labyrinth walk, hot tub, chair massage and retreat materials.

Click here for the exhilerating, blossoming details!

Snoopy factor

When people come to GardenSpirit Guesthouse for the first time, they usually "ooh" and "aah" about how the house is full of softness. There are soft pillows, fuzzy rugs that feel like blankets, blankets that feel like the softest fur imaginable (but no real fur, I swear), extra plush mattresses, fluffy towels.

It's like living in a pillow - exactly as I intended. Cozy, safe, cocoon-like and....soft.

This morning it dawned on me why I love the softness of life: it's my Snoopy factor. Long before I knew a thing about Peanuts and Charles Schultz's comic strips, I had a stuffed dog named Snoopy. It was an enormous stuffed animal for its time - Snoopy's body from tongue to tail was about as long as my entire child's body. He was created in a paws-splayed-out position with droopy eyes and long floppy ears, as if he was always drowsy, already ready for bed.

Every night I would perch him on top of my tummy under the covers and tell him my deepest secrets, my dreams, my nightmares. He became my first confidente; I could tell him anything. And he listened ever so patiently. I supposed it was my version of having an imaginary friend.

An imaginary friend would never measure up to the tactile pleasures of Snoopy, though. His two-tone brown fur was sewn together in a patchwork of fuzziness. His red plastic tongue stuck out at an endearing cock-eyed angle. His sad brown eyes were half covered with long brown yarn eyelashes.

The piece(s) de resistence were Snoopy's ears. Long and floppy, they were so long they could be pulled forward over his eyes - he looked as if he was wearing blinders; or piled on top of his head like Carmen Chiquita; or pulled straight out, ala Dumbo the Flying Elephant.

Best of all, they were lined with light brown satin that gleamed in certain light. I was in sensual ecstasy! I'd rub Snoopy's furry ear against my cheek ("with" the grain of the fur), then I would turn over to the cool, smoothness of the satin and caress my lips and chin.

I had always loved the satin binding on blankets. When my brother was just an infant and receiving a lot of baby gifts (hey, where were MY presents to open??) I co-opted one of his blankets as my own. "Blue Blanket" was an early predecessor of Snoopy. I loved the soft satin against my face...until one fateful day, Blue Blanket was accidentally left behind at a motel room.

My mother reports that I as a little girl I hated scratchy clothes -- no starchy, organdy dresses for me. To this day, when I buy baby gifts for new moms, I walk by the adorable fancy baby clothes in favor of a stretchy knit or, better yet, a blanket with satin edging.

So GardenSpirit is full of the Snoopy factor. And I am still in ecstasy when I touch those blankets and rugs and especially the satin curtain in the massage chair room. Ahhhhhh.....

Murder on the bridge

The massive red-shouldered hawk was perched calmly on the broad rails of the wooden bridge that crosses the creek at GardenSpirit. I watched in fascination as a squirrel darted across the bridge and several small birds swooped in to land on the new bird feeders I had erected in the back yard.

There was something wrong. Didn't those little creatures understand the danger posed by the hawk? Get out of there now! I took a closer look.

The hawk was craning its neck down between its feet, pulling out strings of ... my fascination turned to horror ... fresh meat. No wonder the woodland creatures were carefree - the hawk had selected another victim. They were safe. For now.

I couldn't pull myself away from the scene, wished I had my telephoto camera or at least a pair of binoculars. What was the bird eating?

As the hawk stepped up and down on its prey, holding it firmly as it stripped the flesh from the poor animal, I caught a glimpse of a long skinny tail, writhing in protest. With a shudder, I realized that the hawk's prey was still alive, being tortured to death by the sharp, highly effective beak and talons.

"Oh, get it over with," I muttered. "Kill it and put it out of its misery." I cannot stand to see animals suffer, or human beings for that matter. Yet, I was transfixed by the hawk's nonchalant and primal call to survive. There was no guilt in the kill; the body of the prey would nourish the body of the captor.

I was acutely aware of the proximity of the hawk's vicious meal to my own refrigerator, stocked with sanitized versions of the hawk's lunch: chicken salad, pepperoni pizza, cold sliced turkey. I was struck with my recent ah-ha realization that religious blessings before meals were actually an acknowledgment of the ultimate sacrifice paid by those lower on the food chain. A 'thank you" for trading their lives for ours.

Whatever was beneath the hawk's feet - a snake? rat? lizard? - apparently stopped fighting. The hawk ceased its deadly stomp-dance and even stopped feeding for a few moments, apparently satiated.

The clouds above made a madcap pattern of sun and shade as the hawk sat, contented, on the bridge - a full stomach, a brisk winter wind. I resumed my chores and when I looked outside again, the hawk had disappeared.

I couldn't resist -- I went down to the bridge, hoping for a clue about what kind of animal had died in front of my eyes. The carcass was gone. All I saw was a bloody stain on the rail. I lowered my head in sorrow and respect.

Life feeds on itself 100% of the time. And most of that time, I don't even notice...